


The Morning After

by LeelaStarsky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Heterosexual Sex, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-09
Updated: 2006-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeelaStarsky/pseuds/LeelaStarsky
Summary: Ron and Hermione take the next step in their relationship, and spend the next day considering the ramifications.





	1. Ron

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

He knew he shouldn’t look at her. Thinking about her was bad enough; looking at her… well, it was agony. An acute form of torture. But Ron couldn’t stop himself; his eyes moved in her direction without any conscious participation on his part. And every time they did, he had to force himself to look away, afraid of what his eyes would tell anyone who happened to notice. Yet, the minute he looked away, his mind responded by conjuring memories of her for him to gaze at. And Ron’s most recent memories of Hermione were like a white-hot brand across his vision.

Christmas Day had been pleasant, despite the fact that Harry was still in the hospital wing. He, Ginny and Hermione had opened their presents together in the common room, and then proceeded to spend the morning with Harry in the hospital wing. Happily, Madam Pomfrey had deemed him well enough to join the small lunch feast, so Harry had come down to the Great Hall with them.

Lunch had been very jolly, specially with Snape absent, until Harry’s scar had started hurting so much that he’d almost passed out. But what had particularly frightened Ron was that, for some reason, Ginny had been affected too; a fact that had seemed to concern, but not surprise, Dumbledore.

So Harry and Ginny had ended the day in the hospital wing together. And, although Ron had teased them about it, he was very glad they at least had each other for company.

But that had left himself and Hermione alone. And, while he had fantasised about it often enough, he could never have believed the day would end with them sleeping together. Full on, honest to god, him inside her, sex. But it had, and it had been the most amazing experience of his life.

Ron realised he was looking at her again when her eyes met his across the table, and had to smother his smile. They had missed breakfast, knowing they could claim they’d slept in, but knew McGonagall would suspect something if they didn’t turn up for lunch. Hermione had been worried the professors would be suspicious when Ron didn’t show up for breakfast, but nothing had been said.

So here they were, sharing the Boxing Day lunch with their professors and the small number of students who had stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas. Hermione had deliberately sat across the table from him, a move that Ron understood, despite his initial chagrin. If Hermione had been sitting next to him, it would have been impossible not to touch her. And touching her would have set off a burst of Wild Magic between them that would have been impossible to explain away. Just _thinking_ about touching her triggered a cascade of emotions that left him feeling so turned on he was afraid to move.

Like every other male, Ron had spent much of his teenage life in desperate anticipation of finally ‘doing it’. Thinking of nothing but the pleasure involved and of doing it as often as possible. Yet, when it had come to the crunch, sheer nervousness and fear of hurting her had left him struggling to maintain his erection long enough to get it ‘in’. When he finally did succeed and felt himself slide inside her for the first time, in that achingly short moment of stillness, Ron had been almost overwhelmed by the feeling of being exactly where he belonged. The comfort, the pleasure, the indescribable joy and absolute _rightness_ of that moment, was something Ron knew he would never, ever forget.

Then Hermione had moved, shifting her hips ever so slightly, and instinct had taken over; his hips bucking softly and without his conscious volition, sending spears of pleasure shooting through his groin that left him unable to do anything but sink into the rhythm. The exquisite in and out slide. In and out of Hermione. It was that thought, that vivid comprehension, which had sent him over the edge; orgasming inside her while clinging to her like a child.

He had been afraid to look at her; ashamed of his ‘performance’ and the sticky reality of what he’d done. But Hermione had run her hands down his back, caressing him, chasing the vibrant sparks of Wild Magic that were running rampant between them and kissing the top of his head where it rested against her shoulder. Physically and emotionally hypersensitive, Ron had forced himself to look at her, to meet her eyes, and face her disappointment.

“I love you,” she had assured him softly, and then he was kissing her hungrily, promising her that it would be better next time. He had managed to last a little longer the second time, and was much more aware of her responses. Realised that, while she undoubtedly seemed to be enjoying it, Hermione was still very much in control of herself, and certainly did not appear to be reaching orgasm.

Ron wanted her to come. He wanted her to feel the same pleasure and helpless joy that he did. He wanted to see her lose control.

Thinking back to his brothers’ words of wisdom on the subject, as well as the many hours of study he had done on his own, Ron understood that the chances of Hermione orgasming from penetration alone were very slim, and he wondered if she had ever practiced by herself. He felt a stirring in his groin at the thought of Hermione masturbating and smiled.

“Hermione,” he said softly, and turned his head to look at her.

She was on her side, facing him, studying him, and responded with a soft, “Hmm?”

“Touch yourself for me?” Her eyes widened and he rolled to face her, stilling her automatic protest.

“Show me how to touch you; how you like to be touched. I need to know what feels good for you.”

“I-I-I,” she stammered, but he silenced her with a kiss.

“Please?”

Hermione rolled onto her back then seemed to freeze. He sensed her blush rather than saw it, and ran his hand reassuringly over her skin, whispering words of encouragement. Finally, when she still hadn’t moved, he let his hand trail down her right arm to her hand, gripped it gently and slid it to her groin.

She had demurred then; assured him that it didn’t matter and that the closeness was more important to her, but he had insisted, sitting up and moving down so he could see what she was doing. The maze of folds that greeted him had been daunting to say the least, but to have such an intimate part of her so close to his face had also been a huge turn on. And he had felt very privileged. Here was a part of Hermione _no one_ had seen. _No one_. Not even Hermione, directly.

But, when he touched her, opening her folds fully, and saw the trickle of white fluid run out; fluid he knew was _him_. Then he had groaned. Almost overwhelmed by what was, without a doubt, the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Show me,” he encouraged, and her hand started a circular path through her folds, pausing as her fingers passed through the trickle of semen. Her eyes met his as her fingers tested the substance briefly, and he knew she understood what it was. She deliberately lubricated her fingers with it then closed her eyes as her fingers worked rapid circles over her clitoris.

Listening to instinct, and obeying his own curiosity, Ron had run his finger lightly across her perineum, through the trickle of white fluid, then followed it back up to the lower edge of her vagina and Hermione had moaned softly. So softly, Ron doubted she was even aware that she’d made the sound at all, but to him the sound was nothing less than inspirational. She had _liked_ that.

So he did it again, with a little more pressure, and this time her response was undeniable. Her hips rocked softly and she moaned again.

The trickle of semen increased suddenly and he reasoned that her inner muscles must be contracting; pushing it out. Was she coming? Ron didn’t think so, but he suspected she was close. But how would he _know_?

Very carefully, he slid his finger inside and got a whispered “oh,!” for his efforts. Delighted that he was apparently doing something correct, Ron shifted, taking the weight of his upper body on his left elbow to allow his right hand freedom of movement, and very gently slid his finger in and out.

He felt her inner muscle clamp down on his finger briefly and, deciding she was _very_ close, wondered what he could do to push her over the edge. Her finger was rubbing frantically across her clit and, although he felt tempted to push her hand aside and work at it with his tongue, Ron wasn’t sure how she would react and he certainly did not want to interrupt her when she was so close to climax.

Deciding to try for the clitoral nerve endings that study had told him lined the front inner wall of the vagina, Ron turned his hand palm up and, on the inward stroke of his finger, slid a second finger in. Hermione gave a little gasp and went rigid. _Yes_ , he thought, _Yes!_ Her vagina felt like molten satin; hot and deliciously slick, and he deliberately increased the stroke of his fingers. Then her inner muscles were contracting rhythmically around his fingers and Hermione shuddered.

She pulled her hand away, breathing heavily and Ron couldn’t help himself; he dipped his head and ran his tongue over the area her finger had been working. She squeaked with surprise, bucking her hips, but he hung on, fingers still inside her, and hungrily explored her contours and folds with his tongue.

_She smelled so damn sexy!_ He thought. And tasted…well, it certainly wasn’t unpleasant. It was sex. It was wonderful! And he was hard and desperate to be inside her again. Her genitals had swollen with her orgasm, and were gripping his fingers even more tightly. The thought of how her hot, slick walls would feel around his cock now…

He pressed harder with his tongue, feeling the hard little bud of her clitoris jump at the pressure, while her inner muscle clamped down hard around his fingers. _Could he make her come again?_ Ron wondered and lifted his eyes to look at her, without lifting his face.

She was watching him! Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. As soon as their eyes met she whimpered, “Ron!” and grabbed his head, pulling him up her body.

“I need you inside me,” she told him desperately, then made the most incredible guttural groan as he complied.

_If she does that again, I’m gonna come_ , Ron thought, while desperately struggling not to. But her hips were bucking, urging him to speed up and he gave up trying to control it; thrust in and out of her frantically.

“God, yes!” she grunted, and he was coming; orgasm ripping through him until he collapsed on top of her, struggling to catch his breath.

They had done it twice more that night, and once upon waking. Then they had gone to the Prefects Bathroom. Together. So many fantasies coming to life in one night; was it any wonder he couldn’t think about anything else? Ron looked across the table at her again, awed by Hermione’s ability to carry on a conversation with McGonagall while he doubted he could string two words together. None that made any sort of coherent sense anyway.

They had intended visiting Harry and Ginny in the hospital wing after their bath, but Hermione had chickened out at the last moment; concerned that both of them arriving freshly washed would be a dead giveaway that they’d been bathing together.

Ron had disagreed but, not wanting to argue with her, had gone to visit Harry and Ginny alone, intending to assure them that Hermione would be up to see them after lunch. Ironically, Ginny was in the bath when he arrived. And, to his eternal embarrassment, Harry guessed what he and Hermione had been up to in seconds.

Ron had briefly considered denying everything, but quickly realised it was pointless. This was Harry, his best friend, who would know he was lying in a heartbeat. So instead he had hid his face in his hands and moaned, “Please don’t tell Hermione you know; she’ll kill me!”

Harry had given him all the right assurances then, just when it looked like there was going to be an awkward silence, Harry had shifted closer so they could keep their voices low and asked, “So? How was it?”

Ron was still struggling with his embarrassment and certainly didn’t feel comfortable discussing something so private with Harry. Yet, he knew that if the positions had been reversed, he would have been just as eager as Harry to know how his best friend had fared. And there was also a part of him that was desperate to tell someone; to share his joy.

Harry must have sensed his struggle because he clarified hastily, “No gory details,” then smiled hopefully. “Just… a rough idea? Let me live vicariously for a minute? Please?”

And Ron had crumbled. “It was fucking _brilliant_.”

Harry moaned with heartfelt yearning; not for Hermione, Ron knew, but for the pleasure and intimacy of sex, and Ron repeated huskily, “Brilliant.”

His sister had emerged from the hospital wing bathroom a little later, and, after chatting with both of them for a bit, Ron had headed down to lunch. He had fully intended to ask the headmaster about what had happened to his sister – why she had been affected by Voldemort’s attempt to read Harry’s mind – but one look at Hermione had chased all that out of his head. Now, it was all Ron could do to stop himself from grabbing Hermione and dragging her back to bed.

He had told Harry that he loved her but; thinking back over the last twelve hours, Ron decided that love was a totally inadequate description. There wasn’t a word he could think of that could honestly describe what he felt for Hermione.

Once again her eyes met his across the table, but this time Ron did not look away.

“I love you,” he mouthed surreptitiously, and felt his heart soar when she did the same back at him. Then her eyes widened with alarm, drawing his attention to his right hand. Tiny, tell-tale, deep violet sparks of Wild Magic were oozing out of the back of his hand and Ron hastily dropped his knife, shoving his hand under the table.

He glanced around the table, hoping desperately that no one had noticed, and felt himself quail when McGonagall met his eyes, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. Ron busied himself with his food, silently cursing the Wild Magic, and making sure he didn’t look at Hermione.

And wondering how the hell they were going to explain _that_ away.


	2. Hermione

The first time they slept together was in third year.  On the floor of the Great Hall.  She, Ron and Harry had pulled their sleeping bags into one corner and settled down together. They had thought nothing of it at the time, of course, and the fact that the rest of their friends had duly separated into their regular male and female sleeping arrangements missed their notice completely.  They were best friends; of course they would sleep together.  It wasn’t until she woke in the early hours of the morning and found Ron facing her, snoring softly, that Hermione realised it might not have been totally appropriate.

 

Yet none of the professors had said anything.   And if there had really been anything inappropriate about it, Hermione felt sure that Percy would have said something.  Then again, perhaps Percy hadn’t noticed?  She knew he had spent the night patrolling the Hall; perhaps he had been so intent on impressing the professors with his maturity and reliability that he had completely overlooked them?

 

Hermione had lifted her head slightly to look past Ron at Harry, who was also snoring softly, on his back, with one arm thrown over his head.  He looked more peaceful than she’d seen him in a long time, and she couldn’t help smiling.  Then she had settled again and returned to gazing at Ron.

 

His face was so close she could feel each breath as he exhaled, could almost count every freckle on his face.  This was the first time she had ever looked at Ron, or thought of him as anything other than simply one of her best friends.  This was the first time she had really thought of him as _male_ , and couldn’t help feeling vaguely disturbed when her imagination kept throwing up suggestions like – _this is what it would be like if you were married to him_.

 

His breath caught slightly, and he shifted a little before settling again.  Looking at his eyes; Hermione could see that they were moving behind his closed lids and wondered what he was dreaming about.  Then she noticed his lashes.  They were surprisingly long and Hermione felt sure they were the sort of lashes that Parvati and Lavender dreamed of, but Ron’s lashes were so fair; they just weren’t noticeable most of the time.   

 

Hermione thought they were beautiful.

 

Then Ron had shifted again, and farted quite loudly, and she’d had to bury her face in her pillow to stop herself giggling. 

 

 

 

The next time they slept together was accidental.  It had been at the Burrow, the summer after the Department of Mysteries.  They had taken to sitting up late, talking, (discussing Harry, what had happened, Sirius, their future, and the future of the Wizarding World) and this time had fallen asleep on the couch together.  Mrs Weasley had woken them surprisingly gently, and Hermione had felt as embarrassed as Ron looked, yet resentful that she hadn’t been aware enough to appreciate the fact that she’d been sleeping against him.  He had kissed her a week later, and the next time they fell asleep on the couch together during one of their late night talks was not really accidental at all.  And they had done more than just talk.  Now they had ‘slept together’ in the truest sense of the term.  

 

Looking at him now, sitting across the table from her, Hermione felt an intense wave of love and happiness wash over her, awed that something she had always considered strictly emotional could be so tangibly physical.  The expression in his eyes caused a genuine physical response that seemed to race through her body and lodge deep in her pelvic floor, setting up an ache that only knew one relief.  A relief she hadn’t truly understood until last night.

 

Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, Hermione wondered how she would survive until ‘the next time.’  Then he smiled softly, intimately, his eyes telling her that he was feeling exactly the same, and Hermione thought she might actually swoon for the first time in her life.  No one had ever told her that love would make her feel like this; that her body would in fact _ache_ to touch and be touched by him.  Sure, the books had mentioned dizziness and light-headedness, but Hermione had never believed them, let alone thought to take them literally.  Not one book mentioned the way her nether regions would respond when he looked at her.

 

And now Ron was sitting there trying to keep the joyously _smug_ expression off his face, failing miserably, and if he kept that up they’d be showering the whole table with Wild Magic without even needing to touch, and how the hell would they explain _that_ away?  It was bad enough that anyone paying attention to their body language would guess in a heartbeat.  Would _know_.  And Hermione didn’t want to share this with anyone.  Not yet.  Not until she and Ron had had time to savour it for themselves.

 

Ron, her _Lover_.

 

Hermione forced herself to focus on her lunch while she considered the term.  Because that’s what he now was, in every sense of the word.  Her _Lover_.  What had started as a bit of a cuddle on his bed had rapidly escalated into something far more serious and wonderful. Something Hermione had been dreaming of since their first kiss during the summer holidays. (Longer if she was truly honest with herself.)  With Harry and Ginny _both_ in the hospital wing, and everyone else gone home for Christmas, she and Ron had taken advantage of the fact that they had, not just the sixth year boys’ dormitory to themselves, but Gryffindor Tower as well.

 

Ron had not expected it to go as far, she knew; had stressed over and over that he didn’t want to do anything she wasn’t ready for.  But Hermione knew she was ready.  With the Wizarding World in its current chaos, not to mention Lord Voldemort and whatever he was planning, who knew how long they would have?  And she knew that Ron felt the same way; he had surprised her during one of their late night talks while on rounds by admitting his grim concern that they might not live to take their NEWTS and, more particularly, his deepest fear that something would happen to _her_.

 

That had resulted in their most passionate session until last night.  A session that had started in the corridors but had been interrupted by the appearance of deep violet sparks, which literally seemed to ooze out of their skin wherever they touched.  Wild Magic.  Ron identified it before she did, which had surprised her.  Although, in hindsight, Hermione decided it shouldn’t have.  With seven children as evidence, she suspected there was more than a little Wild Magic in the Weasley household. 

 

Hermione had read about the phenomenon, Snape and McGonagall had lectured them on it in their Beltane classes, but the reality of it was quite unexpected. According to the books, Wild Magic was a physical manifest of intense, combined, sexual arousal.  Something that only ever appeared when more than one person was involved.  Deeply involved.  Emotionally as well as physically.  

 

Seeing sparks trickle out of Ron’s skin wherever she touched him had genuinely shocked her.  Seeing it ooze out of her own skin had been almost frightening.  But the thought that she would not be able to touch Ron in public without giving away exactly how they felt about each other was downright terrifying.  Nevertheless, the knowledge that there was a literal ‘spark’ between them was reassuring.

 

They had quickly retreated back to the (thankfully empty) Gryffindor common room, where they’d spent a long time experimenting with it: running their hands over each other and watching with awe as the deep violet sparks oozed out of their skin.  Then Hermione had discovered that she could actually feel the sparks against her lips wherever she kissed him, and that it was far from unpleasant.  What she’d expected to feel as a slight prickle, turned out to be an exceptionally pleasant tingle.  A tingle that seemed to intensify with each kiss, expanding through her body until it lodged in her groin.

 

At that moment, desire became _need_ in a way that had been almost unbearable, and was obviously affecting Ron the same way.   Clothes and reason started to be shed as their bodies tangled in front of the fire.  But a noise from one of the stairwells leading to the dormitories had brought them to an abrupt halt; the footsteps of a fellow Gryffindor echoing down the spiral staircase as he or she staggered to the bathroom, half-asleep.  Counting themselves lucky, Ron and Hermione had collected themselves and beat a hasty retreat to their respective dormitories.

 

But the ache had remained.

 

Then, right before the end of term, Harry had snapped - reached the end of his tether with Malfoy after one taunt too many, and the resultant brawl had ended with Malfoy _and_ Harry in the hospital wing.  Malfoy had been portkeyed to St Mungo’s so he could go home for Christmas, but Harry had been forced to remain at Hogwarts; Dumbledore had felt it safer.  So Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had stayed at Hogwarts too.  Then a pleasant Christmas Day had been punctuated by Voldemort mounting a mental attack on Harry, (which had affected Ginny too,) and, much to their guarded delight and surprise, Ron and Hermione had found themselves alone.

 

Their first time had been fumbling, clumsy and messy, but that was to be expected. At least it hadn’t hurt.  In fact the feel of him sliding into her had been nothing short of relief; _this_ was what her body had been craving for so long, and Hermione couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed and confused when Ron had stopped so quickly.  It had taken her a moment, but finally her book-learning had resurfaced and she’d suddenly understood: Ron had climaxed and, from the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, was deeply embarrassed.  She had reassured him then; reminded him with words and actions how much she loved him, and the Wild Magic running between both of them had been truly fascinating.  

 

Having Ron help her reach orgasm had been embarrassing, terrifying and liberating all at once, and Hermione couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed with herself for forgetting to watch the Wild Magic, but the pleasure had driven it from her mind.  And then there had been the shock of him using his mouth on her ‘down there,’ followed by the equally shocking revelation that he’d obviously enjoyed it.

 

Waking up beside Ron this morning had been everything she’d imagined it might be.  Hermione had opened her eyes to find him already awake, studying her in the soft winter light from the window nearby, and felt her heart sing from knowing she was so thoroughly adored.  Then his eyes had darkened with lust and Hermione had felt herself respond in equal measure, both of them laughing as the bed seemed to be suddenly awash in Wild Magic.  They were getting more adept and coordinated each time, and sex was steadily getting better and better as they each became less self-conscious.  Their session in the Prefects’ bathroom this morning had been nothing less than a luxurious voyage of discovery.

 

Apart from diagrams in books and a rare glimpse of her father, which she felt didn’t count; Hermione had never really seen a penis before. (Although there was that once at the Burrow, the summer before fourth year, when she and Ginny had caught all the Weasley brothers – except Percy - skylarking, naked, in the pond.  Hermione had a vivid memory of a lot of freckled white skin, red head and body hair and, yes, several penises looking for all the world like shrivelled, fat, pink worms.  There had been a brief, frozen moment of shock, then Ginny had shrieked, laughing hysterically, and pandemonium had broken out.  Hermione spotted Ron in time to see him dive for cover while Bill and Charlie roared laughing, Fred cavorted brazenly and George suggested, grinning, that she and Ginny join them.  She and Ginny had, of course, fled; to fall in a heap a safe distance away, in paroxysms of laughter. ) Hermione had certainly never _touched_ a penis, and was quite amazed to discover how soft one was.  When it was erect, the skin felt like silk and, from Ron’s reaction, was extraordinarily sensitive.

 

Hermione suddenly realised that Professor McGonagall was speaking to her and did something of a mental panic as she struggled to bring her attention back from thoughts of exploring Ron’s body.  Of following the light trail of copper hair from his chest to his groin.  Of taking his penis in her mouth and Ron’s response…  She couldn’t help wondering what Minerva McGonagall would think of her if she knew her best student was sitting here thinking about Ron Weasley’s penis and how it had felt inside her.  How empty and bereft she felt without it and how her nether regions were literally aching to be filled by it again.  Professor McGonagall was asking after Harry and Ginny, and Hermione felt a wave of guilt for not going with Ron to visit their friends in the hospital wing.

 

“Ron saw them this morning,” she assured her professor smoothly, then smiled as though slightly ashamed of her own indulgence and added, “I treated myself to a nice long bath instead.  But I will be seeing them after lunch.”  She smiled and risked a glance at Ron as she added, “Ron promised he’d bring them some pudding.”  Ron threw her a grin through a mouthful of food and Hermione had to stop herself from giggling.

 

McGonagall turned to discuss Harry and Ginny with Dumbledore and Ron seemed to give the conversation his complete attention.  However, Hermione could tell he was having as much trouble concentrating as she was.  It was almost surreal.  Here she was listening to professor Dumbledore, making the right sort of responsive sounds at the correct intervals, yet her thoughts were consumed by lust.  

 

She let herself study Ron while his attention was on Dumbledore.  A thin band of winter sunlight was streaming through the window and onto his hair, turning it into a crown of shimmering gold and copper, and Hermione wondered how anyone could consider red hair ugly.  To Hermione it was simply glorious.  Even his lashes, those amazingly long lashes, were glowing in the sunlight.  

 

The band of sunlight faded as clouds covered the sun once more and she realised that the conversation had moved on and Ron was once more returning her scrutiny.  He smiled as their eyes met, and this time did not hurry to look away.  Then he mouthed the words ‘I love you’ and Hermione melted.  Uncaring of who might see, she mouthed, ‘I love you’ back, and felt the familiar thrum she had learned to equate with the rising of the Wild Magic, doubly grateful they had chosen to sit apart and that the table was between them.   But then she saw the tell-tale violet sparks start to dribble off the back of Ron’s hand and felt a surge of panic.   What if McGonagall had noticed? What would she say?  What would she _do_?

 

Alerted no doubt by her somewhat panicked expression, Ron hastily shoved his hand below the table, and Hermione thought she would die of embarrassment when she heard McGonagall say quietly beside her, “Miss Granger, I’d like a word with you in my office later this afternoon.  After you’ve visited your friends in the Hospital Wing will be fine.”

 

“Yes, Professor,” she murmured numbly to her food, afraid of meeting the woman’s eyes and wondering if what she and Ron had done was grounds for expulsion.

 

  



End file.
